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Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
i was going to fold the sunday newspaper many times...
just to get a postcard sized output...
or whatever you'd like to call it...
   i was taught that creasing pages of books
or folding edges of pages in book
was very much a blasphemy...
     call that weird, i call living to reach
atheism and vomitting scientific facts
   a bit like creating a Frankenstein monster...
  to be honest, i feel like a frankenstein monster...
    i have absolutely no care for allegiance...
i'm in free-fall mode...
     i feel nor care to feed some patriotic
adventure into a war...
  i was folding a sunday newspaper
remembering that fetish i had for
three newspapers being opulent and about
men imitating women by folding them
akin to knitting... the guardian,
the daily telegraph and the times...
   only one of the three remained true to its roots...
i loved watching people fiddle with these
titans... folding them like taking a scrap
of a toilet-paper bite and folding it several
times before taking another fold...
and wiping for the **** that could just as well
be a mouth...
        we also call it playing cards...
that game where your *** speaks more reason
than your mouth, and how
     the three top layers of cards, king queen
and jack are doubled to have a mouth
either side of the mouth-**** copernicus...
    so you can't tell the two apart...
**** or talk? dunno... it sounds very much alike.
  but these co-op people are bothering me....
they're asking me about my age
every time i buy a beer...
   is that some sort of pick-up line?
          ok ok, i get the acne and it's not comfortable
for me either, i guess my *** could make it
into a fashion magazine quicker than my face...
   what's this?
             i get the acne, i have a beard...
do babies have beards?
       it's a beer... it's not a bomb...
    this has to be some sort of fetish...
                       it's a bit like finding your second
loss of virginity... apparently it's called 25...
  it's not even murky waters of 16 / 18...
do i look over 25?
    ha ha... yeah mate... 30...
     i feel like chewing on some chicken bones,
or biting into a human cheek, to bite past the cheek
and eat the tongue in cheek...
     why do people become so annoying that
you retaliate thinking about cannibalism?
   what's with them being so primmed into
the role of supermarket cashiers?
     they're gagging for violence, aren't they?
they are... they must be...
           oh right... oscar night...
  this sunday times magazine... kept folding it
and folding it... until it was comfortable to read,
hardly a reason to do the same with a hardback book....
oh wait... the heresy, and the need to respect the book
as if every book was a koran,
bookmarks... but no no to folding
the edges of pages having arrived at...
you want to know a secret?
  Poles have a tendency to mummify flowers
  by putting them in books... true story...
Poles mummify flowers by storing them in books...
if you really want to understand the true
bibliophiles... as the Poles what they do with them...
   i mean, it would be hard to mummify a cactus in a book,
or that glutton that's the autumn thistle...
      they really do mummify flowers in books,
the Poles... which is why they come up with
the need to use bookmarks, and the religion
of never folding edges of books to replace bookmarks,
or what a suit has, and the cravat suddenly missing...
     now i kinda get why there has been no
islamic attack in poland, this etiquette of
respecting books, translated into how i
might treat a newspaper... folding it...
     jaw for jaw... manidble, cheap, cheap and
everyday... about to be deemed fake...
      i get that, like i know you take off the sleeve
of a hardback edition and then put it back
on once you handled the didlo fabric...
                and some women might
call charming the limp phallus like man might
charm a white rabbit from a top-hat...
    or what the madonna-***** complex explains...
had it been better approved for the care to
explain today... or vhy whittle kaiser wilhelm
was the  original oedipus prototype / the freudian muse...
what was my original concern to fill
the void of defeat that's: making war using a blank canvas?
oh right... la la land... the actress...
    emma stone... it's like i almost recognised her face...
i was thinking ethan hawke...
but i was thinking of a different red-head...
i was thinking the film predestination...
and... she almost looks like both a shadow and a face
thief at the same time, to define the case of
doppelganger...
   but it really wasn't her... it was sarah snook...
another redhead...
or maybe it was this private conversation that
had me started... or how: predestination
can be replaced by a concept that's even more
shock-awe... coincidence?
    i make history happen in the private
sphere of counter ego-tripping
by making newspapers into origami,
        folding them to make digesting them more
realistic, and also opportunist...
                 sometimes i do make the odd punctuation error,
but then again... look at all this space









                                                  ­                 .
just one of the reasons people write poetry,
or at least what later becomes non-orthodox
avoiding of rhyme...
  rhyme used to be the original punctuation
in poetry, people used to
   eat and
                 sleep...
   but then writing poetry became an uncertainity
concerning the paragraph,
it was eaiser to punctuate a paragraph
knowing if; or: and esp., to say something more...
   which is one of the reasons for the "improvement"
of punctuation, the dot dot dot of poets
and the ditto enclosure of existentialist philosophers.
poetry to me is a deviation from punctuation,
it requires the cascade mechanism to allow it
expression with bravado, and the zenith of
arrogance...
                         to me poets are
punctuation-phobes....
                                  here me... imitating the two
figures in the Salmaan Rushdie novel, d i.e.,
  what was it? two people falling off a plane...
one drops like a tombstone stiff...
                the other is all panicky pretending to
invoke the capacity of being a pigeon...
what was that book?
              still.... i was just buying a beer and i get
asked for my age...
                i sometimes love when people
can be as annoying as that...
                        if i were a woman i'd be saying
that it was a compliment;
so i am... writing this "poem".
ryn Dec 2014
Never mind
the boy
who's got his
head
in the clouds.

Just...
wrap up his
remains
and
bury him
in
shrouds.

He hopes
to be
missed
by
more than
just
a
few.

More
importantly
he'd like
to be
missed...
Just
by
you.
"i don't wanna have to be the one to tell you this,
but you're no foodie; you're just a fat-***
who's too cowardly to take an honest look at yourself.

It's okay to be whatever you want,
just don't lie to yourself proclaiming to be a foodie
to justify late-night trips to Jack in the Box four days a week,
or eating a whole jar of Tostitos 'Salsa con Queso' every two days.

Are you trying to mummify yourself with all those preservatives?

Y'know,
just because you blow most of your paychecks
on gasoline, **** food and overpriced coffee
pulled to the most pretentious of standards
doesn't at all begin to mean that you've got any class, taste, or style,
let alone that you're a foodie.

At least recycle all the paper products your pseudofood comes in.

Moreover, your thighs aren't ******* gluten,
they're all that other junk you eat habitually
while watching your oh-so-edified selection of films
before sleeping it off until 3 in the afternoon.

No wonder you're so full of ****:
you are what you eat, I suppose.

Pull your head on out your ***.

All that fat and cholesterol isn't for the faint of heart."
A bit of a rant. Sorry, but not really.
blankpoems Aug 2013
Friends become strangers as fast as I was forgotten
beneath the quick pale of the moon.
Seemingly fleeting and self destructive, but really
just sad and lonely and broken from the past.

For a few months there I couldn't get out of bed.
I wrapped myself in blankets like I wanted to mummify myself.
Like I was already dead, and maybe I actually was.

I was foolishly waiting for someone to ask me if I was okay.
I was foolishly waiting to be missed.
But the girl who blends in with the night is never noticed by anything
but the quick pale of the moon.

And soon, painfully, forgetfully, I disappear.
Oblivion greets me like an old friend and I have no choice
but to smile and wave back, before taking its hand
and walking down the path of insanity.

I just wanted someone to save me.

But I don't know what they'd be saving me from.
Maybe myself.
Maybe the past.
But more likely, every bit of hurt that stains my soul
quite similarly to the way you stained my good blouse with your tears.
I didn't even mind, until I saw you across the street and you looked at me
like I was a stranger.

It's just me, the moon and everything else that shines in the night.
I'm wearing a sign that says save me.
And I was foolish to think that you might.
Anthony Perry Jun 2014
My head is over swelling, my heart is overwhelming, i've been trying to deal with this fear but no promises are forthcoming. Abused intentions create these walls you have put up around me, tortured ambitions mummify the air that surrounds me, cremated passion falls from above like black rain making it hard to see, dreams are projected from my obsidian eyes onto a silver screen woven from a life of lies. Truth only hurts when you become afraid of the pain, learn to overcome this this hurt and you'll just have to suffer with the shame. In these last moments I have no one to blame and everything is well in my head as i prepare to take aim, a clock on the wall counts down to the twilight while I inhale the last cold breath of the night, peace is all i hope to gain so i pull the trigger and the last things i hear are sounds of thick pounding rain.
Lana Feb 2014
Your words,
like silken tendrils,
crept along my skin,
Passing shivers flared,
Brushed off
with an uneasy smile,
Now these diaphanous strands  
threaten to mummify,
Encase me in a cocoon
of slights,
sarcasm,
and casual cruelty,
Liquifying my insides
to better feed you,
Bloat your predatory emptiness
with my life-force,
Your clacking mouthparts sharpen,
As does my resolve,
My innards are not for your
slurping,
Skitter back to your shadowy lair,
This corpse will not play,
I rise, awakened,
The sun waits for me.
Crego Nov 2021
Bury me alive
In the tomb that I created
Jaded, complacent, frustrated
Substances left my mind
Completely vacant
Mummify my corpse
Lay it with my mistakes
Confined under infinite sand
In a desert that forsakes
21:10
I met a stranger in the bus..a man in the black suit..and I seemed to know him since ages..took the same route as mine..
Ours was a unique acquaintance, it was of smiles and stares, words hardly spared..

But today, today was different..he, with a diminished smile, seemed like he had a taxing day to cuss..in his eyes, he had the world locked like the pandora..
To open it was calamity, and to keep it all in was fatality.. but he was brave, went on burning his soul in the fire of the heist..
I always wanted to ask him about his pursuit, but I was scared of the explosion, he might endure his own Big Bang..

This stranger in the bus, the man in the black suit, who I seemed to know since ages now, was unordinarily restless today. And I couldn’t guess why..
Flicking his fingers, frantic, hasty and teary eyes, who was once my persona for strength, he left me drowning into the depths of my thoughts..
Oh how could I have even resisted, I was falling short of smiles..
Deciding to trade a word today, this harmless stranger extends a clumpsy mind, just like mine.. the troubles were little too wild, and I was compelled to listen..
They said talking helped, but we shared more smiles, words lesser spared..remember ?
The lump in his throat did most of the work.. While I got lost in his unshared troubles, i learnt something tonight..

Melting cold nights and rumbling leaves at the height. The swaying trees and the smooth slow breeze..These are the flaws of nature that are meant to make us feel right. But the evil, vicious ones, loneliness and anxiety, are our unborn progenies, and we nurture them with will and pride..they tell us of our existence, of the blood and flesh and the emotions running through our veins.. they make us pop and bleed, through our ears and eyes.. like the dictators back in time.. they eat through us, mummify us for the rest of our lives..
And this stranger in the bus, the man in the black suit..
I finally sense him.. He held my hand, asked me one simple question.
Why do we weep when we lose control ? Why are there storms and tempests inside our tiny hearts? Why do we feel wounded by the ******* loneliness that we create with our own flesh and blood, our own nurturing ? Why are we possessive about this poison that is freezing our blood, one cell at a time..? Yes, anxiety.. why do we let it turn us blue, **** us ?

I could only wonder, how smoothly he filled all the blanks. The blanks inside my gut. The blanks inside my head, the questions that he slapped in my face left red marks, but the ringing in my ears gave me the answer..

How easily could I let this venom out of my nose, with each exhale, I could sense the fumes of the blue escaping, leaving me with the spectrum of all colours but the one..

I see this stranger in the black suit everyday now. Everyday, In my bed, embracing me into sound sleep, in the mirror telling me that I was the prettiest of all, in my thoughts, in my walks, talks and mindful tirades.
The stranger now is a part of me, he camps inside me.. he replaced my poisons and demons..
And now we look out the window together, and smile more often.. the storms seem sorted now and ****** anxiety sits beside me, not inside me..
Aimee Toney Mar 2014
Cerulean sheets
Mummify the memory of your eyes roaming down to catch mine.
Light oak rings dotted black with the door to your soul
What did you see?
Ghosts of those days linger in this house
And I don’t profess to be a medium
But I swear at night I can hear them
Faint footsteps passing quietly back and forth between our doors
Confused
And questioning our distance.
©AimeeToney2014
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
True Sight
Where the rich waters of the Colorado can’t reach in the Sahara if the water disappears you move on
Or perish within days the desert will mummify your body. In the land of the southern Oleander the sun
Continues to break over the San Gabriel Mountains an old breed Cherokee walked into this Mecca the
Envy of the modern world he carried a treasure in a canvas bag written on the side 100 years of service.
Little attention was given one of the famous had written another tell all book. Big news about the news
One of the chosen had been singled out in a fury this wayward humble correspondent would be
Straightened out in quick order from death hunger and thirst they lay in great heaps. Not here among
Mansions Rolls Royse and Sade’s only the finest wheels in the world if you could only drive out of this
World in one how great that would be Elijah had the best fiery chariot horses and a band of angles what
Junkers they settled for. Go out with your heart broken you haven’t spoken to your child in years
Your steps from looking for a high building you will find empty headed over filled lives smothered in
Temporal goods that don’t satisfy then the final stroke of genius they set around and brag about nothing
Look deeper friend objects have no feelings when you hit one of life’s unexpected stone walls funny how
Empty your life really is if you would have bothered to listen it is already recorded life’s true measure
Found beyond the borders of what life consist of those intangibles of the spirit can’t be grasped held or
Displayed as trophies you and I friend are the trophies what a concept you are being fought for one is
A master thief the other died innocently between two thieves to make you truly free. You want to know
Who’s winning just start talking about real issues things that have eternal consequence see the cloud
That covers the otherwise bright and sunny face when eternal matters are discussed no time in a hurry
But then the long black hearse the blur of life has receded your family weeps your true friend who
Looked at you in the framework of earths timely clock always visible to him but made him distant and
Strange to you who was this guy he didn’t share your interest didn’t care about getting ahead he can’t
Be important. There was another who watched the clock the master thief he filled your every waking
Moment with thrills trivial whatever it took his wish just don’t look at the telling truth in the clock
As the tree falls so will it be judged if unrighteous then that is how it will be raised. There are friends and
Enemies in life friends can tread on the sacred part of your soul where no one should be allowed but all
Safe guards were removed by your own worst enemy self. Take this simple test who do you walk with
Are you going in the worn path of least resistance everyone truly speaking earthly sense but what about
That old Cherokee breed and that bag filled with treasure everything in the bag is hated spat upon cost
The life of an unspotted lamb and its contents will secure you a true mansion any takers?
Kat Jul 2014
I dream of you..
My flawless Apollo
Unable to fathom
Yet easy to follow

In the darkness
I can't tell the King from a pawn
But with the death of a god
Came the first golden dawn

In a permanent sleep
I'm impaled to the bed
The most beautiful dagger
Stabbed me right through the head

Though I'm happy for that
'Cause I think with my heart
Death is but the beginning
When you play with the arts

I untangle the sword
To push you off of me
Could Romeo & Juliette
Still love with a lobotomy?

The answer is yes
I yank the sword from your chest
Then I mummify your body
And cover you in amulets

From the Book of the Dead
I recite you a prayer
    "Your heart is mine
    And it is at rest there."

I lye down beside you
Re-bludgeon myself
From zombie to angel
Into Heaven from Hell

Corpses in a pyramid
What perfect symmetry
Death is short
But love is for eternity
betterdays Jun 2014
espy me now,
vivify me now,
beautify me now,
satisfy me now,
gratify me now,
tumefy me now,
mollify me  now,
clarify me now,
classify me now,
sanctify me now,
immortalize me now,
deify me now,
rubify me now,
crucify me now,
mummify me now,
reify me now,
codify me now,
ratify me now,
glorify me now,
magnify me now,
mystify me now,
minify me now,
justify me now,
stultify me now,
stupefy me now,
falsify me now,
nullify me now,
villify me now,
vitrify me now,
calcify me now,
ossify me now,
fossilize me,
forget me
and
walk away.
REMILEKUN Dec 2014
Wake me up from the nightmares of my sleep..
Illusions of vehemence and intrusion..
Help me to face up to the reality..
To forbid the pain that I'm suffering..
She was an innocent damsel..
A by-standing suffragette..
An angel caught up in a daze..
She fell into his eyes..
Enraptured and hypnotized..
She pranced into his jive..
She was my sunshine,the brightest spark..
Young enough to know the road she had chosen..
He grasp her hand and led her to the pitch-dark..
He toyed around with her emotions..
He entrapped her virtue and purity..
Offered no recompense nor sanity..
Left her feeling tarnish and fouled..
Built up pains from the inside..
Hide all the tears she cried..
Away from this  world..
I just want to have her held to make things alright..
To mummify the distress of bad memories..
To give her the comfort she needs to get..
To help her pull through all the misery..
If I could just take away the torment ..
To just take away the shame for a moment..
Casting its shadow in her heart..
Creating the crystal tears..
It hurts me to see her fear..
It hurts me to see her cry so hard..
My adored priceless belle,I'll always be here..
When you need a shoulder to cry on..
When life's an illusion within a blank stare..
And memories can't be relied on..
I'll open my arms to embrace you..
To share with you all the pain..
I'll cry the same tears from my eyes..
I'll renew your innocence..
Cleanse out your inner sense..
I will return your smile..
Let out the anger that's built up inside..
Let your instincts go on the rampage..
Scream at the rain, scream into the night..
Scream out the emotional wreckage..
Then roar your triumph..
At the unapologetic and unsympathetic world..
Unwise to the heartache you've been through..
They may not know your pain..
But of course I do..
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
drinking warm whiskey... isn't so bad...
it could be much worse:
it could be warm *****:
     not cold enough to reach a gomme syrop
consistency...
life's so tragic... sometimes...
       a warm ***** is like a warm beer...

what am i supposed to say?
i'm just tired of wanting to be in love...
i'm tired of hating...
   i'm tired of being angry...
i'm tired of being preditable and also:
slithering in pickling juices...
i am tired of love because...
               when it was "love"...
it wasn't dog eyes and a leash...
         or: never mind the solipsism of cats
when they still desire to mark your
forehead when sniffing it...
or come up and greet you:
with a "bodzio"... a head-****...

    so much of my cognitive capacity
became a wasteland from having
both woman and love on a peddlestool
of the ideal...
                   it's terrible waking up...
but that "terrible" sometimes becomes
as... exhilarating as taking a cold shower...
or watching a flock of sparrows chirp...

and the ***: cocoon ***... under bed-sheets...
all my one-night stands happened this way...
under the bed-sheets...
i'm happy to give a comparative literature of:
well... at least in the brothel we did it
under dimmed lights...
****-naked on the sheets...
having showered first
and downed a slacker of ms. amber:
oh you know it's bad...
that i have to call whiskey a very personal
investment narrative...
it's not whiskey... it's... ms. amber...

i should have been drinking long ago...
come shoulder to shoulder with
both my paternal and maternal grandfathers...
cocoon ***...
and if you don't think a man can be "*****"...
at the brothel?
  there's the concept of: creaming-up...
if the oyster isn't salivating enough...
yes... "****"... cocoon *** with a sawdust ****...
sanding paper **** more like...
oh the agony: but to my liking...
yeah bud: stick your lesser want of limbs
into a meat-grinder:
is that penetrating enough?
      who would forever suppose...
it's a kangaroo pouch of safety...
the nadir of lucifer's birth:
     free-falling: head first... but not through
a ****... not some floral pattern...

     cesarean... cesarean... are we going to give
births to kaisers or dull-eyed: deer...
i very much like to imagine a band
of mad-laughter hyenas...

               coal-burning black eyes...
      i am tired of giving up my thinking to any
and all ideals of love...
i could have invested my (th)ought i
into... conjuring up an electric bulb...
        a frankestein...
                i became so tired of love...
i had to come across a brothel:
to steal kisses from prostitutes
     and attempt a theft of the halo of st. augustine...
mummify letters in books...

which i have done...
        but love is such a never-dog...
                    one relationship that involved as cooking
together: beside the already necessary
prerequisite of *******-for-free...
her period, the ******, and cooing her
to do it in the bathtub with the water running...

or this: moment when enough ms. amber
is in me... and i turn to...
         the chants of the templars:
            crucem sanctem...
                   dum pater familias...
          da pacem domine...

that clarity of a transaction...
              the growling dog overwhise
teased with food already presented to him
in a bowl...
          count of fingers...
                    
     i'm tired of love... of all of my body...
this nail blunt head from being hammered
too often...
           it escapes me:
why should my libido be compensated
when it requires: exhaustion...
to find the most fanciful thought:
only when the libido is exhausted:
   and if i have to do it myself: so be it...

but of so many people worried:
i am indeed... "worried"... when will it...
subside... die off...
this quills': marquis de sade:
leverage of: to read books using only
one hand...
                        if the acne is so prolonged
to make me...
belzeebub's favourite ***** of:
what precedes ****** / anti-wrinkle creams...
one maggot 'ere... another...

it is simply exhausting to love:
as one is expected to love via fiction...
and it is too costly to love:
poetically... anything but language...
esp. acquired language:
a language learned... most certainly
not passed from a grandmother to a mother
to a son...
some could claim to call these words:
in vitro...
         and on that matter...
which part of me is experimentally "dead":
the mind... or the body?
i am not... a native of these parts...
a native...           a native...

this is the part of the year when
winter is crucified... and reborn as spring! no?
all ******* rose buds and sparrows chirping!
who can love... so... ideally...
idle though: to make the burdens
of the most... boorish matters needing:
stressed concerns for "detail"...

  am i one of the last ones that still
bought a *****-mag when
the free **** was available online...
                     twitch... i'm an old ****:
in a 34 year old body... because:
keeping up... became synonymous with
being distracted...
                  cam-girl... etc. etc.
            "soz": but there just isn't any bragging
to be minded...
or a:        h'american striptease... d'uh: tease...
the carnival of the wriggling maggot
came to invoke
kissing the eyelids... gently teasing
the tip of the nose with a bite...
                             this body... or that body...
an a sculptor...
   in the brothel i was only robbed... once:
well... "robbed"...
this coke-head distrated me with:
do you want to use this *****...
          the proprietors' henchman...
a little turk by the time: i presume to be:
Osman came up with a bundle of stolen cards
and asked me: which one is yours?

that's a pretty good effort...
        i must have been up to no good...
once we stopped ******* because: she started
seeing downton abbey in an epileptic flicker...
yes: and me ******* her wasn't,
exactly... a ******* chocolate fondant...
          
it seems so... pristine when...
two bodies are allowed to touch...
without all that extra baggage...
that is desired to... "beside" the otherwise...
readily available carnality of the act...

e-girl vidoes: teases...
                                    what can be the best
compliment... one could possibly give to...
byzantine culture / the "modern" greek?
   ah... Αγνή Παρθένε... the singing...
                          
   mulier... no... not a woman or wife...
             hardly a property right...
something to boast and concern oneself for
the rattling of feathers of peacocks...
     mulier... the french playright...
ugh... molière - yes, him!
            molière donning a mullet! yes...
and not one of those charles II wigs...
from one wig alone...
               you could have made...
oh... roughly... an orchestra's demand
for violin and cello bows...

              pissy-pant french of 14 year old
past: one direction fandom...
                            for every male fan of tool...
a declared ownership of a *****...
better still... a screwdriver...
    that would be something...

                                or when stand-up comedy
was communist enough to entertain:
a cabaret form... an **** oddity (bottom)...
can't enough not tire of
stand-up solipsism...
the stand-up solo project of...
back-and-forth with an audience of canned
laughter?
cabaret... doesn't have to be switz
ja herr doktor voltaire...
         but some sort of ping-pong...
a game of squash...
i do not know... of a single concept of
sport... where there's only one...
concept-riddle of engagement...
can comedy... or rather... should comedy
have "evolved" beyond the cabaret...
famously: in theatre-land...
stones in his pockets...
two bodies on stage...
  with a plethora of...
how the sequence went...
   BRONSON...
bronson "vs." or rather:
"nursie" vs. "mr. petersson"...

          two names: Conleth Hill and
             Sean Campion... oh look... capital! letters!
yes: of note... circa 2001...
and that's when...
   this... stand-up... hard-on "comedy"
of stand-ups...
no... no cabaret format...
internal-monologues extending into...
an octopus attempting cliff-skimming:
climbing... failing miserably...
   if it's such a "comedy"...
    where's heidegger's hammer?
last time i heard: even by ol' martin's standards:
you'd require two people to talk
about philosophy as a "side-project"
when hammering in nails...
how can one person tell a joke?
oh but they can...
on special occassion(s)...
         the joke is better translate via a dialogue...
rather than a monologue...
last time i heard...
  
comedy doesn't require these stand-up
geniuses...
imagine... ******* is actually...
a *** act...
taking a **** is actually a...
        get together meal for three...
and that's the loaf... equally spread...
for the devil's dozen...
   ******* will satisfy any champagne socialist
get-together...
      
   i have to become bored of love...
the sort of love that would never come with:
the impetus of darwinism's ideologues...
for: now that i have become a father...
           i'm less and less: a ***** satyr!
               wish me 70+ age and being freed
by dementia to curse like a cobbler
and a seafaring man...

              that overbearing: no room for impromptu:
when solo...
otherwise... no otherwise...
just that strict: regime of... an expectation
for and with: canned laughter...
all that's missing are two tin cans
and a placenta of stiched-up tongues...

... for all the movie buffs...
it's not enough to blunt your eyes on movies...
actors: and their subsequent roles
in 3D... why did up stand-up...
the grand mass-orchestrator of giggles be
allowed to cue the audience...
like any minor dictator might: from
argentina or romania?

                 back toward the ***...
yes... stealing kisses from prostitutes...
this was never going to be one about Wordsworth's
"celibacy"... which you would be expected
to partake in... just having bit into
the forbidden fruit of ****** with your sister...
or so... they might say...

daffodils and that "doris" of the...
will the word ****... somehow prevent
you from seeing ****** ****...
or ******* ****?
then at least there's the hope...
to make minors of ettiquete standards
of the: proper social contract approach:
with civility... or therefore: none...

i am finding a rare occassion for:
an as to why, i would ever do anything to begin
with... grow a beard (1)
grow a beard to stop myself shaving (2)
grow a beard to hide my double-chin (3)...
grow a beard because
growing my hair long became boring (4)...
grow a beard because i wanted
to scratch my ***** on my face rather than
scratch them on my "eden region" (5)...
the other reasons congregate under
the status of... rubric and tally...

(6) to grow a beard is better than growing
the hair long...
no chance of becoming bald...
long hair attracts too much female attention...
last time i heard a woman who grew a beard
became a circus-act...
a beard is the safest territory to mind...
when there's a woman that...
somehow needs to compensate!

         all of a sudden: i have forgotten *****
envy... when i came across
beard envy...
   i am... very much so...
envious of mel gibsons beard...
in general: but esp. so in the role...
of prof. murray... with him donning
a cravate and a top-hat to boot:
the epitome of what all men of the world
could have wished for:
the victorian gentlemen...
fiercer still: an autodidact...
a dog without a leash... eh?

     i pity the tattoo of ethnicity:
given that: i would be english...
an ukranian would be scottish...
or a lithuanian... the tattoo of ethnicty or a past...
that i would be the ******...
and there was this tide of cossacks...
i would be... the ******...
           and there would be some
ingenius pict equivalent...
            in my abode...
                      
    i am tired of love...
the most attired love of idealism...
as i am tired of hate:
and anger...
i am tired of both of these latter:
when there's no boxing match interlude
to match-up with...
i'm tired of love as i am tired
of retribution and of justice...
i am tired of gambling...
what right is there fore me:
to steal from the blind?
           i am tired from: expectations...
i am tired of ideals...
i am tired of hate because:
if i wasn't i'd still find it...
egregious to spot the minor offences
of citing the prefixing n-...
                                        as... nothing short
of an "oops" of b-               and -igger!

i'm tired of being: a civil monkey...
if i'm tired of love...
if i'm tired of hate...
i can never tire of language...
but if i become:
zoologically kept: inept...
                      ha ha! ha ha! ha! ha!
i: dodo: tire: and Tod:
of: ******: improm:     p'tooh!
         savvy or the sinking ship?!

                       RATZ!

better a concern for prostitutes:
seeing that... there's no...
jackie ol' myth to be cooked from my "affairs"...
i thought about:
how about... now was the best time...
to not **** prostitutes...
i stole kisses...
an exercise in making videos...
bring back blockbusters!
             bring back blockbusters!
**** the content creators of youtube!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!

           once upon a time: dubbed:
paupers... the homeless...
prostitutes... now... eh... one sly loss of calling
these... the... leeches of: welcome tomorrow!
so the price of... being...
astounded... that's it?!
                the magnified statement
of karma-phobia...
there has to be a concept akin to:
karma-phobia when islamophobia is already
too bogus to touch...
there has to be: karma-phobia...

a ******* a canvas:
i went down this alley because...
i just... wanted to show-off...
for myself...
the most better part of myself i could never
show with... a girlfriend...
and showing my best:
armed with merely a dog and a leash:
just wasn't enough:
or a fabergé egg: missing a matryoshka doll
"detail"...

like kicking a dog in the *****...
like... attempting to catch a mosquitos
by the ******* donning boxing gloves...
the lowest of the low:
of picking the "fruit"...
jackie ol' burrow: ripe-kipper...
and that merry-o-round of...

                give me enough upper-body volume
to rummage and ruminate...
to clearly identify the psychopaths
leisuring themselves over a thursday's
afternoon worth of sun-soaking
a metaphor of bath...
         and all those minor grizzly detials
of swathing a mosquito or two...
because we are inclined
to spare the flies...
because: we just, are... thus inclined...
i hear an argument: i will: without a doubt...
also hear a guillotine do us all a favor
of detailing the: "chopper"...

my my: that ripe keeper of a pulsating
neck's worth of a rhubarb...
salmon teriyaki...
                                       n'est ce-pas?!

in between: calling it learning to tie one's
shoelaces...
having no better synonym detail
of comparison other than...
             with depeche...
                                no song to be worth
any particular: sort of... originality...
and or in... detail...
                   there's only a hope for
giving a particular sort of wind:
associated with a month...
and with a month: a sorting-out of a year
within and beyond a decade...
a century...
                    
this had to be forever: and one...
enough for the worth of tonight...
and with it... no other, better, compensation
other than my own input;

ha ha!                          grace?!
Patrick W Taylor Sep 2014
Smoke exits as the door swings open,
banging on a wall, tipping the trash can.
The cloud floats up towards the sky
to meet with the horizon
adding white to the crimson tinted sun.

Photogenic teens all group together
to take a 'selfie' with the horizon.
By their feet sits tall boys
of cheap malt liquor.
They cheer,
they shout
proclaiming that this is their one and only life,
the world's ****** up so it's best to be the same.

A short **** and a busted contraceptive.
In nine months comes another ******* child
born to wander in search of a dream
that will never be seen.

Rain falls but never to the container
we become thirsty sipping
on coronas with moldy limes.
Pressing the salt to the wound
to mummify a scar to present
to the thrill seekers.
All the while a fiend lays in some dank alley way
with pin pricked veins.
Talking philosophy with
another homeless man who cannot read.
"We need another dollar, we need change"
but the right change is not found in the pocket,
it's not found in a bank.
The right change cannot manifest in green paper,
it comes inside the hearts and minds
of men, women, and children
who live for later
Life's a Beach Dec 2014
and I'm right on the top
bang
Going to write my ****** scene
No spelling errors
No cusps of cuts of typos
Lipo of an essay
I'm going to take a textbook bullet
and blow my ******* brains out
Vowels and consonants splattering on the wall
Every ball of ******* up scribbles that
just missed the bin
are going to rise up, like ghosts, and mummify me
within their subtext of muffled screams

It's going to be fantastic

I'm going to drown my calculator in my dreams
Quietly muttering 3s and x's
Asking it if it can guess Y while I press it's buttons
like it happily pressed mine
Sadistic
Sarcastic
Fantastic-*******-tastic

Die

Ins­uperiority complex

Die

Wish to please

Die

The tease of the good mark that won't give out

Die

muffled shout

Bang

Top of the hit list, let's blow my ******* brains out.
From a box
I'm cut up so agreeable
Under the heat lamp
I mummify

**** me through a straw
Coming up
Building monumental failures
I dissipate
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
i don't exactly remember how i read j. joyce's finnegans wake, but i read it, that grand interpretation of premature dementia of his daughter, never read it aloud, but i read it, and maybe that made me skew into some sort of symbolism, the attempt to capture too any sounds, perhaps all sounds, and enclose them in inexact onomatopoeias written down - dyslexia and excess spelling - indeed, once your intended creativity disappears, you begin to become entrenched with the few original ideas you had - then you begin to repeat yourself, crafting tombstones of your mind - so many shared lives, so few given a grand grave of being entombed in a familial grave.

difficult books, like Ezra's cantos i read in
uncomfortable positions,
usually on the windowsill, in a pseudo-akimbo
of a turk, one leg tangling the other under
my buttocks -
it eased the eyes to become eager and spur
the reading fascination on -
i'm not really a book worm as such,
i had six beers with me,
i climbed the hill leading unto the Essex
village of Havering-atte-Bower,
drank, smoked cigarettes, finished off
the 2 remaining cantos -
see, for a man i could do this,
a man who wrote a book...
i could never do such a thing for a woman
who'd written something...
it's called the brotherhood, otherwise
a marriage would have taken place -
once i reached the peak of the hill leading
to the village, a slight drizzle -
but it didn't escalate into a thundercloud,
thank you;
so i sat there, first watching traffic and smoking
and then started to annihilate the Pisan cantos...
on the horizon that old torture rack
near the roundabout - the *stocks
,
behind me a church... a thief only walks through
a village once as a free man
, indeed, then
clamped into the stocks... more than feet,
hands and feet... the church behind me...
cursing the cross / spine like that...
they still have the stocks in this village...
a husband and two girls were inspecting it
trying to find a culprit to make an example of
how the contraption worked...
i told you how it worked... then one villager
emerged from a house with a little blonde boy
to play football, kicked the ball high up intending
for it to land on my head - he apparently shouted
'heads!' - but because of headphones i didn't hear it,
it missed, then he tried to apologise -
after i finished the cantos i wished him a good day -
****** - you ever see that video with two idiots
playing about with a basketball in Trafalgar Sq.
and they bounced the ball against this huge gorilla's head?
you know what the gorilla did after the two idiots
tried to hush the "joke"? he got a glass bottle
and smashed it against one of the idiot's head... ha ha.
funny now, oh much more funnier than that
basketball trick... plump pluck of a plum...
boom... on the pavement, a Mike Tyson moment...
(yes, and by comparison, i'm a ******* albino chimpanze)
once finished i plucked a camomile flower
from the village lawn, put it at the end of
the Pisan cantos... give it a month and the
camomile will be mummified... dried out...
books are better than the intended pyramids...
you can mummify flowers using books,
give it a month and the flower will be dried out;
walking down the hill took a scenic route
listening to little birds and woodpeckers via
https://goo.gl/1eU4zB (the wooden fence proves
the route is inhabited by footprints from time to time).
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2020
April showers
bring with them atomic flowers,
strewn about Elena’s hair,
her forest painted
the colors of Red Square.
Children play in the fun zone
where radiation particles
are active and windblown,
forming flakes on rosy cheeks,
floating down toxic creeks.
The smell of graphite burning in a kiln
makes the nostrils flare,
what’s this metallic taste in the air?

Clouds drift over weddings
and Ferris wheels,
rain falls black and surreal.
Mother goes about her routine
humming dirges like a godless fiend.
36 hours to figure the science,
past time to evacuate
a city in brisk silence.
Brides scream and children cry,
from the fall-out they mummify.
Pripyat’s dying metropolis
they euthanize and lay to rest
in a sarcophagus.

And atop her shallow grave,
deep within the exclusion zone,
sit the sickened stems
and decaying fragrance
of nuclear flora over bone.
Here in the jackal's sanctum,
a capsule car on the lifeless
pleasure wheel
swings like a pendulum,
over a wooded lot with not a soul in sight,
only fresh morbid blooms
that glow in the night.
I met a stranger in the bus..a man in the black suit..and I seemed to know him since ages..took the same route as mine..
Ours was a unique acquaintance, it was of smiles and stares, words hardly spared..

But today, today was different..he, with a diminished smile, seemed like he had a taxing day to cuss..in his eyes, he had the world locked like the pandora..
To open it was calamity, and to keep it all in was fatality.. but he was brave, went on burning his soul in the fire of the heist..
I always wanted to ask him about his pursuit, but I was scared of the explosion, he might endure his own Big Bang..

This stranger in the bus, the man in the black suit, who I seemed to know since ages now, was unordinarily restless today. And I couldn’t guess why..
Flicking his fingers, frantic, hasty and teary eyes, who was once my persona for strength, he left me drowning into the depths of my thoughts..
Oh how could I have even resisted, I was falling short of smiles..
Deciding to trade a word today, this harmless stranger extends a clumpsy mind, just like mine.. the troubles were little too wild, and I was compelled to listen..
They said talking helped, but we shared more smiles, words lesser spared..remember ?
The lump in his throat did most of the work.. While I got lost in his unshared troubles, i learnt something tonight..

Melting cold nights and rumbling leaves at the height. The swaying trees and the smooth slow breeze..These are the flaws of nature that are meant to make us feel right. But the evil, vicious ones, loneliness and anxiety, are our unborn progenies, and we nurture them with will and pride..they tell us of our existence, of the blood and flesh and the emotions running through our veins.. they make us pop and bleed, through our ears and eyes.. like the dictators back in time.. they eat through us, mummify us for the rest of our lives..
And this stranger in the bus, the man in the black suit..
I finally sense him.. He held my hand, asked me one simple question.
Why do we weep when we lose control ? Why are there storms and tempests inside our tiny hearts? Why do we feel wounded by the ******* loneliness that we create with our own flesh and blood, our own nurturing ? Why are we possessive about this poison that is freezing our blood, one cell at a time..? Yes, anxiety.. why do we let it turn us blue, **** us ?

I could only wonder, how smoothly he filled all the blanks. The blanks inside my gut. The blanks inside my head, the questions that he slapped in my face left red marks, but the ringing in my ears gave me the answer..

How easily could I let this venom out of my nose, with each exhale, I could sense the fumes of the blue escaping, leaving me with the spectrum of all colours but the one..

I see this stranger in the black suit everyday now. Everyday, In my bed, embracing me into sound sleep, in the mirror telling me that I was the prettiest of all, in my thoughts, in my walks, talks and mindful tirades.
The stranger now is a part of me, he camps inside me.. he replaced my poisons and demons..
And now we look out the window together, and smile more often.. the storms seem sorted now and ****** anxiety sits beside me, not inside me..
CoffeeInfused Mar 2015
I wonder if there’s a place
Where the old gods go to die,
Those who’ve passed from memory
Or stayed long past their prime

In some graven crypt
Do they linger there to keep
Company to the Nameless Ones
Who’ve long since been asleep?

Do they crumble into dust?
Or crystallize in stone?
Or follow us mere mortals,
Flesh dripping from the bone?

Every god will see a day
When no one knows their face-
They’re all-to-soon forgotten
And another takes their place

Does Anubis wait alone
In some dank embalming room
With no one left to mummify
And too many empty tombs?

Or Odin sit upon his throne
No more warriors to call,
No one left to drink his mead
Or fill Valhalla’s halls?

And what of all the other gods
For whom prayer comes no more?
How long until they turn to dust
And cede the earthly floor

To the new gods seeking power,
Though in their infancy-
Of Machine and Spark and Wire,
Of Information, Electricity-

Even Jehovah one day too,
Will be a relic in the past
As Christians forsake their Christ
And praise the Almighty Flow of Cash

The time has passed for blood and bone
And of sacrificial days-
Technology now takes its place
To send the old ones to their graves.
Exalted by grand design,
Smooth effervescent wine,
Wash me and age my skin,
Don't torment me from within,
Don't ferment my dying sin,
Just mummify my yesterday,
So in the bask of tomorrow,
I may look upon it, with sorrow,
Bury my iniquities with the drugs,
Make the ground high,
And I upon it fly,
Looking down only to say,
"Goodbye."
To a world, since flooding,
Dry.
Mona Feb 2017
Gradually I'm losing interest,
Negotiating and bargaining
has ****** the energy out of me,
Every one of my reasons
has been worn out,
And the wind's wrath
has taken everything in its path,
What is left is lost
under masses of dust,
Excuses why the world
is on autopilot,
And we should sit back
And watch it burn,
Because it will burn
Whether we want it to or not,
My mind asks questions,
And what I'm met with
are not answers,
are not reasons,
I'm only met with white noise,
The sound of walking feet,
The sound of closing doors,
The sound of an empty well,
The wheels rolling,
And people sleeping and waking,
As if we're meant to learn
how to walk on this thin rope,
And never do more than breathe,
How am I supposed to sit down,
and persuade myself
that tomorrow I will try again,
I tried yesterday,
And I tried today,
But I'll always be painted
pink
and submission
in their eyes,
And I'll always be painted
"third world"
And "underdeveloped"
To the passerbys,
And sadly every color of those
is permanent.
I may not be the only one
with a breath left,
But the others who gave up
on their lungs years ago,
They're trying to mute
our sound of breathing,
To fill our lungs with soot,
To  mummify our sense of being,
To push us under the wings
of what is morally accepted,
The morals that are trending this year.
And I know it,
That eventually we will recede,
Just like history tells,
And just like I am about to
bow down and look at my feet,
And brush another crude comment
under the carpet.
Sorry for this excessive dose of pessimism. It's still 12:16 pm here. But you know when you try to sleep on something and you wake up feeling the exact same thing. So write it down is what I did.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
perhaps it's not so much: as one might be...
supposed to live up to the names one is baptised with...
in the catholic manor of bureucracy - bureaucracy -
phonetics! bew-rh'oh-cracy...
           beau-row-cracy...
               ***-for-tat... pedantic details only
less feeding feeling creature establish... most probably
men...
   there are two one is given at baptism...
                   i guess... that's in line with...
the catholic 'abracadarba' matching each host
to the tetragrammaton: two names at birth...
      a surname... that's three names...
       and a fourth name when one is to be confirmed...
i had all the chances to be confirmed...
open-end apostasy... i have no confirmation name...
but that would equal the quenching
of the tetragrammaton "farce": four names...
four names...
                 what was once a brave act of kneeling...
colin kaepernick kneeling at the anthem...
before the game...
                  derek chauvin is also kneeling...
crude comparison: what's impressed in my mind
is the act of kneeling...
          i once kneeled on a bee...
that i was hoping to mummify in some mud
as a child... the bee managed to sting me from
within the slush-puppy and i cried and i cried...
and... that was that...
               to be given names at birth...
the surname is non-essential: unless i be born
a windsor or a churchill...
                 or a Radziwiłł - h'american socialites:
ha ha: socialists... lite...
                       or a Wiśniowiecki: Yerema!
i once had a friend by the name of... al-ex-an-der...
and he did mention that as a name:
he'd borrow his name from a figure in history...
a one... macedonian: encrypted into greek...
and that inverted mongol empire...
that lasted just as long...
                     i never asked what his second name
was...
i sometimes used my baptism names
interchangeably...
and my choice of historical characters...
matthew the levi...
            conrad... well... i was always going
to have more fun with that...
either konrad of masovia
.........................................................­.................
                       or konrad wallenrod...
back in 2007 it was still an unpopular name...
a would be girlfriend... half persian
half scottish... laura... a date night:
me falling asleep when watching a roman
holiday... etc. etc.,
     i very much like to see ghosts of these memories
when i tow them to the depth of the sea
my mortal self and this the anchor that
will give me... the sinking sip... sipping snorkle...
i guess konrad is no common name these
days or a muhammad...
that... a joseph comes along and says:
call me that...
yes... this is very much... a vanity project...
because i don't like the sound of my own voice...
i can take a photograph of myself...
as long as... i see a labyrinth my ****** expression...
and i contort my face to: no known
recognition...
         too bad for the girls who have been
given names... as common as... peaches...
pearl... if only your surnames were...
    Waldorff-Preyß - a salad of little consequence:
to ever not mind... appetites hidden...
no... i couldn't do it...
   i have my mother to testify...
       all in order to... rear children...
  to have one's intellectual adventure stunted...
all for the rearing of children...
the anti-dodo-project gehenna of sharpening
the 7 tiers of silences and... patience...
i have no patience... i have a short-temper...
i'm sporadic... i'm not passionate like some
Iberian host... i'm spontaneous...
quick to respond... short on giving...
elaborate humour: wit...
                           i can... fathom a grandmother...
i can... fathom a mother:
       but the irrational "misunderstanding":
the head... dark fathoms of the most belittling
of places that thought enters...
the narrative is lost... because of... fudge-esque
packaging of a constipation of breath...
trial by errors: agitated soul...
          and this... failure to ignite...
a figment... the lost concern for imagination:
more... the myopia of pickling furniture...
a table of torso...
   a chair of an arm's worth...
                     all these rubrics settled with ghosts
and how... post-mortem telepathy works
to ***** grey-hounds of inquiry...
at these moments... i just want to scream...
i want to YARL... but... i know the limits...
of these walls having any understanding for such
words to be: let alone thought, then heard...
yet alone spoken to be later screeched out with
a gluttony of barritone!
    i'd need to feed the forest...
which would imply... walking a good mile...
to venture into the awe-seeing forest...
the owl the deer the fox the badger...
to scream without sense: but to reach...
an audible near echo conclusion without a cave!
to feed the woods!
not... some... near abandoned bedroom...
   and... if i can't entertain a conflict...
when talking about the three partions of
polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
     which part were we from...
the prussian... the russian or the habsburg...
and you're met with ridicule
and a cul de sac of conversation...
when ingiting it with...
                even the germans thought
the prussians were *******...
because of... vectors x, y and z...
                     well... because the prussians
were pagans...
- what?!
- yeah... the prussians were pagans...
isn't it strange how they would later
encompass the whole of the german people?
- the prussians were pagans?!
- yes... the prussians were pagans
and somewhat germanic... more lithuanian...

and all you'd get it a shock-awe look
of suspence... a gamer meets a girl who'd only
buy shoes...
she might be a mother...
a tedium a baron of shadows...
a venture tranquility...
                  the melodramatic cuff... cross:
burden... heel! an imaginarty dog
in reverse... the sanctity that could
never translate itself into either my son
or daughter...
and how... my future wife would only
be seen as a *****...
su-ka...
                        the tyranny of mothers:
even without... the absenteeism of fathers...
i imagine a world...
           which... by the end of it...
there's a valhalla...
             rather than a jannah...
    where you drink and you fight...
chimeras...
   and you are... indeed... served by...
the valkyrie...
   drinks... but ******* them...
would imply: getting **** from
that h. p. lovecraft pederast sulk /
ocotpus godhead...
                
would it matter that... i had... some chances...
but that the one chance i had...
it would be less of an emotional wheelchair
if i decided to... "inconvene" myself
with a ******* for a bride...

tsu-tsu: to have a heart with
the geometric study worth of thrown...
into a lake... ploop! mirror of echoes...
and a sinking into a depth:
and time... at what point...
can man face time as the horror of space?
at what point does space become less
awe riddled... at what point does
time prop its head up and sober
everyone peering into a postcard
from saturn with a sobering fearful-glee-of-fear?!

oh yes... that space and time are relative...
time: awed at... collectively...
nostalgia for ancient rome...
      space: awed at: collectively...
pictures of saturn...
  time... m'eh... claustrophobic...
individually... nostalgia for youth...
when in old age...
space: feared...
                     die cast...
         your next door neighbour...
muffled... irritating... living... drone...
next door... and you... have...
not a single artifact of shared experience...
beside: up & death!

sally challen is a name synonymous...
              with...
              and andrei chikatilo was also a father...
because there's a need to look for
aliens: not enough to peer at luxury
in a fly under a microscope?
grand newton ego! for all and every!
the common man!  

the prussians were the forever old germans?
those people romancing etymology:
and any ethnicity for a romace:
come the thirdf *****: with sveedish:
dished out loot corp..
that the prussians are to be "questioned"
with the pomeranians?
what gate of sea...
the baltic is the beggars' mediterranean...
nothing but Helvig & Helva and...
quanrantine hammock: lining...
herrings: eaten raw...
like bistro maidens of sushi:
baltic sushi: mango squash sort
of *******...
so... so... so happy...
for the british imp-yre have imploded...
postcards from everywhere...
race bating inter-racial:
hard-ons...

              it's best served:
mongol ***** a mongol:
a new mongol is born...
instead?
an "orc" zulu ***** a porcelain
parisian...
a quasi arab is spawned...
because... all hell would break loose
should ****** be deemed:
too light for the arab...
and too... towing the non-agreed
to suntan "mishap"...

****'s the conundrum...
warsaw! warsaw pact!
can anyone think of a better name
for a capital: name...
war-saw...
            and whenever i visit my
grandparents... ****...
i didn't "integrate": fully...
because i retained my...
         einheimischsprechen:
                     und: milz und knochen...
                                        X:
hen... 'ause... not:
         cheat-the-parrot-with-chuckles...
******* cockney chuckles bullet proof:
y'ah... change two tow a spare?
bindi a lingo loot off of a turban?
salvo! this 'un: makes it clarified:
a clarifying lawrence romance piece
of mecca...
very much akin to:
the minor croat project for yugoslavia...
the serbs...
and... those... janissaries...
the new brit the old ottoman...
    from the "old... very old"...
borrowed from... yugoslavia...
                  that france works...
that austria works...
that england: england was always
going to work... except in h'america...
and the battle for vienna... 1683...
oh... wait... why is it that
i don't want to...
that paris... circa 2004 is best
kept as a memory...
          
                                 i have a mother is still a parody...
here's to... grieving the subconscious
history project... paint of ed gain
onto the canvas of blanche...
h'america is better than cool: project:
you you too!

hybrid of congestion...
that old fabble of the islamabad of conquests...
beside the mongols...
the 4.5 crusade of the baltic states...
because barbarossa was being
pickled and the major volume of army
were... withering into a scoop
of... a waiting for: reinvigorated waking...

my history is no history is my history
is no history...
    lots to share: dog **** to boot too...
the arcade of: gesticulating...
being solved with a snippet of
the ******* sack: and a chance
to salvo in the vatican choir...
               a past...
   there's a past that also invites me to
cocktail the: presently at hand...
england... minus...
wales... scotland... irritating tip
of ireland: north-eastern collide...
the quill with a peacock strutting?

        this is "my".... "past"...
the journalistic event of now...
      the old lady is singing...
   it was never began... but... it's all over...
forever and: the now.
Kat Jun 2019
I dream of you...
My flawless Apollo
Unable to fathom
Yet easy to follow

In the darkness
I can't tell the King from a pawn
But with the death of a god
Came the first Golden Dawn

In a permanent sleep
I'm impaled to the bed
The most beautiful dagger
Stabbed me right through the head

Though I'm happy for that
'Cause I think with my heart
Death is but the beginning
When you play with the arts

I untangle the sword
To push you off of me
Could Romeo & Juliette
Still love with a lobotomy?

The answer is yes
I yank the sword from your chest
Then mummify your body
And cover you in amulets

From the Book of the Dead
I recite you a prayer
    "Your heart is mine
    And it is at rest there."

I lye down beside you
Re-bludgeon myself
From zombie to angel
Into Heaven from Hell

Corpses in a pyramid
What perfect symmetry
Death is short
But love is for eternity
nick armbrister Feb 2018
to what
what to write
what to think
what to do
what to say
what to dispose
what to ask
what to answer
what to design
what to suggest
what to refuse
what to confirm
what to dream
what to add
what to discuss
what to tattoo
what to read
what to eat
what to drink
what to be
what to ****
what to shoot
what to bomb
what to corrupt
what to believe
what to dismiss
what to slaughter
what to obliterate
what to annihilate
what to eliminate
what to terminate
what to graduate
what to *******
what to beautify
what to crucify
what to mummify
what to buy
what to steal
what to create
what to destroy
what to forget
what to remember
what to expire
what to try
what to ship
what to order
what to use
what to fly
what to drive
what to sail
what to crash
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
i was rereading poem no. 11 from Ovid's
first book of ****** poems...
a bookmark? 100 rouble banknote...
hmm... i know the Slavic practises of women
who enjoy literature...
they enjoy "mummifying" flowers
in their books...
    me? i managed to mummify a spider...
the ****** crawled into the pages
to dry out...
              LAWINA LAWINA...
the chant before the opening song
of a gig by Łąki Łan... AVALANCHE...
LAWINA! LAWINA! AVALANCHE!

listen! LISTEN! to the people!
that's all you need to do... listen....
to the people!

i ******* hate the English and their
supposed: technicians of all the languages
of the world...
their... pish-poor skills at skiing
and etymology...
   SLAV... is simply short of an E?
and GERMAN? missing a MAN?
with missing S for GERMS?
what's ARAB?
                                 GRAB?!

                 i get ******* over the simplest
of "problems":
they're not problems...
but i get ******* about them...
because they're problem akin
to saying: blue is red...
and the English are prone to be megalomaniac
in their two-face-one-sidedness!

as much as i love the English:
i hate them...
because i've orientated myself
to live alongside them...
even i know that the English distinguish
the "English" among themselves...
the northerners are monkeys
and the southerners are fairies...

the Welsh are ****** and the Scots are
Scootch...
  while i'm translating myself
as an Anglo-Slav...
               hybrid cause... excuse me please...
i'm just not among my own people...
the ancient fable of the three brothers:
brothers Chex...
                (Czech)...
Lach... (Lax) and Rus...

           right... so this in-warring in the Slavic
worlds is a major ******* problem?
where was Afghanistan... Iraq...
Libya?! the best cricket season ever?!

funny "thing": **** Germany...
and... the concept of Arianism...
                   ever heard of the Sarmatians?
the Iranian tribe of people who settled
in Poland? the area of land preoccupied
by the migration of storks and European Bison?

"they're" not "my" people:
  but there's this echoing of time...
a furore...
             a condescending part-past-present...
there's this launch of the Harbinger of the Demiurge!

Nazis... fake... Aryans...
attacking actual Aryans?!
for the sowing of the sorrows of all
our deaths... may they come before
we least expect them...
i have no demands
of the Russians...
                       just some from the FSA...

some sanity... please... some sanity...
you're no longer the "USA"...
you're the FSA...
you're the Federal State of America.,.
i agree: a ****** acronym...
but... truer... than what you're used to...

your etymological malpractice
created a spontaneity in me
i wished would never be born...
****** ****** ++,
i.e. *******... seirously: *******...
or i'll eat you...

i feel what i think:
i think that... i feel like:
the sound of chainsaw...
and your bones... readily itemised!
i feel like... something being
dealt a proper "scrutiny"...
        i want to make someone
sick of thought...
           i want to reinvent glue...
hmm...
            perhaps i want the pan-Slavic
reinvention?
          of... let's... no no..
let's not re-try Communism...
                                    
current people are such ******* *******...
current people are: bo-ri-ri-ring...
then again: maybe almost everyone was...
maybe we've been entertained too much
to know the difference between between
being entertained and not ieng entertained
and having drinking water /
fire to keep warm...

music is less music
if you can replace it with the SOUND
of wind or that of water...
or that of fire....
start calling MUSIC: VIBRATION...
              
i ought to know... the Demiurge is ******!
we're not sitting pretty...
we're sitting... pretty: ******* ugly...
i'm having my last: my last: everlasting fun...
if i'm wrong? fair enough:
but i'll be dead anyway.

we! "we"! we were the "original" Aryans
of the European continent...
the place where the Samartians settled...
unlike the myth of the Russians
and the Swedes founding Kiev...
hell... the English have their Anglo-Saxon
myths... so... why can't i have mine?!

no... not: Samaritans...
SARMATIANS!
                            ARYANS...
an Iranian tribe that lived on the banks
of the Vistula...
where i'm from...
well... so much for defining yourself
as not being historically confined to
the origins in Iran by simply killing Hebrews...
ha ha...
so much for blonde hair...
and... the current currency of anti-racism
with the women entertaining BLACK-OH...
i don't care...
i'm sort of looking up for the New-Brazil...
of copper-neck skinned
beauties...
more white in her than black...
i mean... loss of thick ***...
loss of thick nose... loss of thick lips...
+++...
                      but the curly hair?
that's there...
                                    what?! problem?!
and when did a horse ask to **** a donkey...
wait...
when did a wolf ask to **** a spandex...
variation of a "would-be" labrador:
lab-rat root of what would become a...
******* Dachshund...
which would later become
a *******: break my bones! break 'em!
break em! let's create a Dobermann!

or is that, in reverse?!
time... seems... in-reversible...
  all the better... i'd abhor having to deal with
repeats of someone already having said:
ecce ****.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
to sketch but the rarest example,
  you might just require
a touch of Horace -

         bene est:
        hoc erat
                     in votis -

albeit akin to dj shadow
sampling, namely: in reverse -

    but i can't help to notice
that i turn into a kleptomaniac
on the rare occassion
   of walking around town,
drinking...

          to this day,
            with only a few days past
i still possess thorn
        incisions on my left
hand...
                
             i'll admit this most
joyous shame,
        and i rather not excuse
the drinking,
   rather reiterate:

           i'm a kleptomaniac
when it comes to flowers,
            i pluck them from
                         the front-gardens
of english suburbia...

    and imagine a woman in my bed,
or the comfort of a grave
        sealed with an epitaph
and a pecking crow...

       death: that eternal plateau -
at least the thought of
the immediacy of impact having
jumped off a roof,
      with such force,
   suddenly gaining consciousness
of the intricacies of
organs, without delirious
                      factoid fascism...

i agree, medieval art is hardly
a compliment to the paupers of epoch,
seemingly all stand ******,
       esp. when donning a crown,
              anemic yet plump beauties...

comes little wonder,
   why Dante's inferno is celebrate,
like the paradiso is such:
vague, attempt to market memory...

given that the per se has sole relish
in being: intact...
                  
  but on the odd occasion that i do
find myself bound to an up-right
spine and moving legs...
           drinking,
                   i will gain a sudden impulse
to craft a bouquet...

             throw it onto the roof just
outside my window,
   and allow the sun to...

             is it me, or, do only slavs mummify
flowers in books?
          
    that's the one Meursault aspect
i seem to have been born with,
       my mother loved poetry in her youth,
and she used to
             hide flowers in books...

come to think of it:
it's hard to think about her without
a dimension of grief...
     but the "problem" is:
                   i can't comprehend
a reflective mannerism for grief...
          
   sure, upon the served impetus,
i can show a reflex to feed the satire
of mortality...
        
              reincarnation: as in,
         only a limited number of people?
hard to choose, given that
i've slept uneasy for the past 10 years
as if i killed someone...
              butler...         or a butcher?

such a beautiful world exists,
outside the realm of man's ambitions.
If my eyelids were a canvas
Upon which I could paint your smile,
I'd never open them again,
I'd sleep forever and a while.

If I could see in every cloud,
The gentleness of your embrace,
I'd leap from the tallest building,
And try to float away in space.

If the sparkle of each snowflake
Shined like the glimmer in your eyes,
I'd get buried in a blizzard
Until my frostbitten demise.

If I could find a piece of cloth
To hold me close the way you do,
I'd have to mummify myself
So I'd be always held by you.

If there were ever such a mind
In which you were its only thought,
I don't have to imagine it.
That's just what loving you has brought.
artist, dragon and gangster extraordinaire

Written September ninth,
two thousand and twenty one.
Reposted exactly three years later.

Here at 2 Highland Manor Drive
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.

Actually all three people
linkedin to each other courtesy
Dissociative Identity Disorder
(Multiple Personality Disorder).

Wiccan up to mystical alien way
I raptly listened as she didst soothsay
scanned -- din heavy yen reference
about paganistic folkloric history
regarding Sweden and Oslo (also) Norway.

The missus dubbed
aforementioned young gal "curvy girl,"
a zaftig smart young woman
super talented self taught herself
to draw, sketch, and paint.

Only unmarried millennial men need apply,
perhaps someone who hails from buckeye
state - ideally above average
humorous gallivanting fellow
plus somewhat meshuggeneh *******
Louie garden variety
wealthy eccentric recluse
who doth blatantly defy
establishmentarian paradigm

you rarely espy,
cause he stays sequestered
about dozen doors down
from (femme fatale) ha
said alluded to chick named
three faces of
eve vent jewel one named Jen Fry
easy on the eyes
courtesy me, a generic guy,
who experienced amicable chat

referencing aforementioned lass
the first encounter with her
found yours truly saying "hi"
devoid of ulterior motives
only casual acquaintanceship did I imply
cuz even if this former bachelor
(got married twenty fifth of July
nineteen hundred and ninety six)
hypothetically decoupled,

cuz the age difference between us
quite substantial qua aging baby boomer
born two years after Bridge
over the River Kwai
filmed - then rocked to sleep
courtesy Brahms lullaby
if fain to sire offspring with lass
(young enough to be my daughter)
kiddos would witness their papa to mummify.

Our friendly communication
peppered with structures of silence
coasted along with zest
and dialed up quite lathered dialogue
betwixt us I do attest
mutual comfort level quickly established
between yours truly
and said attractive beefy babe,
who possessed killer thunder thighs
shaking the entire firmament.

— The End —